


Division of Labor

by TempestRising



Series: Divisions [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), literally mostly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 19:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12990798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestRising/pseuds/TempestRising
Summary: Dan and Phil have carved out pretty specific roles for themselves. Dan washes the dishes. Phil folds the laundry. But that carefully defined structure crumbles when Dan gets a book for Christmas signed: Love, Phil.





	Division of Labor

Because you like to sleep with the curtains drawn,

at dawn I rose and pulled the velvet tight.

_Cynthia Zarin_

.***.

After baking videos, when every bowl and spoon and pot and fork and everything, everything in the flat needed to be cleaned, Dan washed and Phil dried. They had fallen into these roles early, mostly because Phil's hands always slipped or the bowl always slipped and they'd lost a surprising number of plates and cups in the sink for a few weeks before Dan, exasperated, just took over that step of the process, handing over the cutlery and dishes as they finished, Phil wiping clean and puttering around the kitchen to put them away, music playing in the background, laughing about how incredibly messy they got and, surely, it couldn't be normal to have chocolate in their hair.

Phil liked the repetitive motion of folding laundry, liked the smell and the warmth in the wintertime. Dan could always tell when Phil was having a bad week because the dryer would be running constantly. Phil cleaned his clothes first, then all the towels in the house - dish, bath, hand, all coming out in fluffs. Bad weeks, weeks where the ideas just stalled, meant the bedsheets in the wash, too, Phil's first, then Dan's, and sometimes Dan would wake up to find a neatly folded pile of his own black, black clothes sitting on his desk. He tried to remember to thank Phil but always forgot.

Dan was the one to figure out how their fireplace worked, and would often fiddle with it in the morning, getting out the long-nosed lighter and adjusting the gas just so, Phil worrying behind him that Dan's overzealous show of manliness would blow up the building.

When the doorbell rang - and it was almost always packages, not people - Phil would whine until Dan grudgingly got out of whatever comfortable position he was in to open the door.

Dan hated taking the trash to the chute at the end of the hall but Phil didn't mind, padding down with anything that remotely resembled trash.

At the beginning, Dan had a habit of locking himself out. Phil would get back from class to find Dan sprawled on the floor in front of the door, waiting for him. "You look like a sad dog," Phil would comment.

"We need one of those fake rock things," Dan said, standing obediently.

"No one would ever suspect, as we live indoors." Phil pretended to fumble with the keys for longer than necessary just to hear Dan's huffs of exasperation. "You could just remember your key."

Dan huffed, leaning against Phil just a little. "Why bother? I've got you."

Phil tended to go out in the mornings, for a walk or for coffee or to soak in the rare-enough autumn sunshine, and so he ended up buying the milk and cereal and other breakfast things, but when they were in the middle of cooking in the evenings, when there was Mexican in the pan and they realized they had no chips, it was Dan who would grab his coat and venture down the street to Sainsburys, coming back just as Phil had the food plated, dishes placidly soaking in the sink.

There was a standing agreement to text each other if they weren't going to be back by midnight. A sort of Cinderella rule that never got spoken out loud until one night when the tube just stopped suddenly, maintenance, three stops before theirs, and Dan, who had been filming and catching up with people all day and just very much wanted to be home, walked, because the night was warm and he had a good playlist going and he thought they probably needed Ribena, which he picked up at the 24-hour mart. It was early morning and taxis were scarce and the blocks longer than he remembered and by the time he fit his key in the lock it was two.

The lights were still on. Dan closed the door behind him as quietly as he could. "What took you?" Phil asked.

Dan jumped, not even a funny jump scare like during a gaming video. Crazy how alert your senses became at two in the morning. "Construction," Dan muttered.

He took off his coat and put down the Ribena and grabbed a bottled water from the fridge and when he closed the refrigerator door he caught sight of Phil for the first time, standing stiff in the kitchen doorway. It was late, or early, and he was tense all over, not even in pajamas. "Where have you been?" Dan asked. Whispered. It was the whispering time of day.

"Waiting up," Phil said. "I texted you. Tried to call."

Dan hadn't noticed. Reception was shit in the tube, of course, but now he saw that there they were four texts and two missed calls.

Phil was still stiff, and Dan didn't know what to say. They weren't teenagers anymore. "Sorry?"

There was suddenly arms around his waist and Phil pulled him into a rare, bone-crushing hug. Dan patted his back awkwardly. "Just," Phil said, "Just call, okay? If you're going to be late."

"You worried about me, dad?"

That did get a chuckle from Phil, and a playful hit on the shoulder before the older boy pulled away. "I mean it," Phil said. "You don't call next time, I'm sending a search party."

"Okay," Dan said. Phil's hand still lingered on his shoulder and Dan felt immensely fond in that moment. It was late and the darkness outside was old and dawn still a long way off and Phil usually abed by this hour but he had waited and worried and it always warmed him, inside out, this knowledge that there would be someone noticing if he didn't come home. "Okay."

Phil figured out all the cords and buttons and shortcuts to get their gaming videos recording, but he also knew computers in a way Dan didn't. For a few teenage years Phil had built himself and all of his friends computers from parts, found the puzzle-making intriguing and could do it for less money than computers were sold for in stores. Whenever Dan had a problem with his laptop he brought it to Phil, who would patiently put his coffee aside and push his glasses up his nose, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he worked.

Sometimes Dan watched this and would wish he'd known teenaged Phil.

Dan did the lion's share of editing, mostly because he was quick and not as fussy as Phil, who tended to get caught up on one idea or one effect and would sit there tinkering for hours, never quite grasping the meatball surgery method of editing. Dan was a perfectionist in all things, but in the gaming videos he had a theory that getting it 85% perfect all the time was just fine.

They both liked to cook, though neither cared much about presentation. If it was edible, they ate it. For Christmas, in the early years, Phil's brother got them an illustrated cookbook with easy recipes for two (this was back when Martyn wasn't quite sure if the boy Phil was living with was just a boy or a boyfriend and his gifts were usually semi-but-not-quite couple-y). On dark, cold winter days, when the sun would barely peak over the horizon before giving up around three and leaving them, again, in the dark, one of them would flip idly through the well-worn book and inform the other that tonight they were making butter chicken, or pot pie, and the evening would be spent with music and wine and food, the kitchen warm and smelling lovely.

Music was one of their few sticking points. They liked the same bands, Muse and American mid-2000s pop punk and, when they started working at Radio 1, they developed a newly insatiable itch for pop. The problem wasn't the music itself, but its frequency. Phil didn't care what was on as long as there was music, and so he had a tendency to listen to the same thing all day, mindlessly hitting repeat on the Zelda orchestral soundtrack or One Direction or whatever happened to be playing, and for hours at a time it could be the same handful of songs and he barely noticed.

But Dan noticed, and Dan would count to himself. One time through. Two. Three. Four. Five. After five, Dan's blood boiling, he'd usually stand up and angrily flick off the music, exchange it for something he liked and he knew Phil didn't, K-Pop just for the sake of something new. The worst of it was that Phil barely noticed the change, would glance up from whatever he was doing with a little smile and go back to it.

And then when the album ended. Repeat. Sometimes, Dan would actually scream.

Their finances were hopelessly tangled together. More than once, Dan suggested they get married, just for the tax benefits, for the ease, and then the nature of their relationship changed and the joke wasn't quite as funny anymore. Still, they used the same lawyers and accountants, they built their brand as a partnership, they promised each other to never argue about money and they never did. They split everything down the middle. They woke each other up for meetings.

If one of them died the other would be left in straits, so they promised each other they would never die.

After Dan started doing everything to manage his depression, it was Phil who stayed up most nights, trying to strike a balance between acknowledging Dan's struggles and celebrating his progress and treating him normally and supporting him in any capacity he needed, and so they became workout buddies, which instantly became a euphemism among their friends.

"Phil! It's so rare to see you without your workout buddy!"

They got gym memberships and trainers and everything, looked for things they liked. Dan was immediately drawn to boxing. Phil to yoga. They separated and came together again, shooting each other looks in classes, one glance enough to get them both giggly. They knew each other far too well.

And in the end, it boiled down to that. They knew each other inside and out. Dan had only to start a sentence for Phil to finish it, like Radar in that old TV show. Phil would think about getting coffee only for it to appear. They knew when the other person needed a break or, alternatively, needed to be pushed to work, one more hour, then blankets and anime. I'll make food, you get the brownies in the oven. I wash, you dry.

Growing up, Phil used to be afraid he'd run out of things to say to someone he saw every day. He'd often had dinner with his parents, trying valiantly to keep up a conversation no one else was interested in having. Whenever he was invited out to dinner he'd jot down a list of potential topics on note cards before hand.

Sometimes there was quiet at the end of the day, a contemplative meal, laptops open in front of them, eating sushi in front of an anime, writing emails near the fire, but then Phil would finish a spoonful and reach out for Dan, whose hand would splay open, their fingers twining together. Words couldn't say any more than that.

In the beginning, they sometimes dated (not each other). Boys and girls dropping by the flat. The other trying to make themselves scarce. In the beginning, Dan hadn't been able to admit how jealous he got of those people who took Phil away for nights at a time. He told himself it was simply platonic jealousy - surely that existed - the dull ache of knowledge that your friend was having a nice evening out and he, Dan, would have to fill the hours alone.

Dan stopped dating other people when he realized that he spent most of the evening thinking of what he was going to tell Phil when he got home.

Phil stopped dating other people because he was bad at it, bad at choosing people. He dated a girl who was overly sentimental and asked him, two weeks in, to move in with her. Then there was that girl who was always late and never gave any explanation, glaring sullenly whenever Phil so much as mentioned the time. Then the boy who hated Dan, and the feeling with wholly mutual. Then the girl who yelled a lot, shredding Phil's nerves to pieces to the point where any raised voice would make Phil would flinch, and maybe that was what propelled him into the arms of the last boy, that last terrible boy. Sometimes Dan would still Google that last boy's name, to see if he'd died yet.

For a year, then two, neither of them dated anyone. Phil was still a bit of a wreck, the last relationship shattering in ways he wouldn't explain, even to Dan, who noticed things and didn't have the heart or stomach to press for details. Dan still didn't think it was fair to other people, that he would sit at dinner and think of Phil.

Dan hauled the decorations out of the basement and pointed the places they should go and Phil cared about getting the star just right, the cobweb draping aesthetically, if impractically, over the fridge.

Phil called for food and would sometimes get into long conversations with delivery boys or waitresses, often based on the weather. Such conversations weren't exactly foreign to Dan but when food was literally within reach, he usually didn't see the point.

Older women who worked at bakeries and coffee shops often gave Dan free samples. Phil liked to happily speculate as to why this happened while eating free muffins, Dan turning red beside him.

When they traveled, Dan would remind Phil to bring his super necessary and also super dorky travel sickness medication and Phil would remind Dan to bring his passport and plane tickets. Phil had folders - actual folders, not digital ones - for their itineraries, complete with pens and highlighters to write down internet passwords and nearby restaurant names. Whenever he took a folder out, Dan would stand several feet away and pretend it was a coincidence two enormously tall gangly white Brits happened to be existing near each other.

Dan was better at taking selfies. Phil was better at taking pictures for other people.

When they went out they'd sometimes look at the menu and know exactly what the other person was going to order and ask if they wanted to share. They'd sometimes be given the table in the corner, the one that was definitely for couples, and they'd fall into the over-the-top lovey-dovey shit they both hated whenever the waiter came over, batting their eyes to see if the other would laugh first.

If they drank, Dan used to get drunk first, becoming soft and loving towards the world, a puddle that Phil would scoop home. Phil would drink until he was buzzed and then switch to water or virgin cocktails.

Dan used to get drunk first because after the last terrible boy Phil dated Dan had come home drunk exactly once and scared Phil shitless. After that, if Dan got drunk he did it outside of the house and would text Phil that he was sleeping over with a friend.

They never talked about it. Sometimes Dan thought that they didn't need to.

At the holidays, Dan was always invited to go on vacation with Phil's family, and he almost always went. Phil would spend weekends at Dan's house, comfortable weekends where Dan slipped into a different persona entirely. Phil wondered if he realized, if he was doing it on purpose.

One Christmas in the later years, Martyn, still confused, gave them a KitchenAid.

Dan began learning how to make bread. He liked the time built into it. Two minutes of punching and two hours of rising. The smell of yeast. They made sure to always have butter on hand, because there was no point in having fresh bread without butter.

One Christmas in the later years, Phil got Dan a beautiful first edition bound volume of Sherlock Holmes stories. This was the same year that Dan began thinking that he may be confused, too.

Phil wrote a note in the book. A Merry Christmas note. It was warm and heartfelt and very, very Phil. And he signed it, Love.

Dan had gotten Phil a sweater he'd been talking about. He'd written a Merry Christmas card that was sarcastic and wry and very, very Dan. He didn't sign it with anything.

They opened each other's gifts under their tree the day before they were due at their respective parents' houses for the holiday. They'd both been delaying their departures. Gamingmas editing backlog. Seeing friends. A small feast. Dan had to buy last minute train tickets. He'd thought, for the first year ever, that he really wouldn't mind staying here and waking up Christmas morning with Phil. That he really wouldn't mind that at all.

Phil put the sweater on. They sat next to the fire. They had been talking about finding a new apartment, when the lease ended, and Phil wouldn't miss much about this place but he would miss the fire. How cozy the room felt with it on. How the Christmas lights looked like magic.

Dan was flipping through the Sherlock stories but kept going back to the first page, and Phil's note, and the room felt thick with the things they weren't saying.

"Dan," Phil said. "Why don't we stay?"

"Don't start." Dan's voice was wrong, rakish and high and joking. "You do this every year. It's just an excuse for you to belt out Mariah Carey. I'm not falling for it. All I want for Christmas is home."

Phil kept his voice low. He needed Dan to be serious. There was a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the fire or the wine or the way, way too much food they'd been eating. "Do you mean that?"

Dan looked at him, and if his voice had been wrong then his face was right, all open, soft seriousness. "No," Dan said. "I don't want to leave, either."

It felt like a weight lifted. "Good."

"Good."

"Good," Phil said, feeling warm all over.

Dan slid next to him. They both had their backs to the fire now, looking up at the tree. Their tree, in their apartment, with all their photos and awards and postcards and things that no longer had a His or Mine association but was simply Ours.

Dan opened his hand like a starfish, and Phil hesitated for only a second before twining his fingers on top.

Their palms were cool against each other. "I feel," Phil said, "like it's been a long time coming."

"M-hmm."

"And that I maybe," Phil swallowed, "I maybe screwed this one up."

He could feel Dan looking at him. "How do you work that out?"

Phil closed his eyes. "After -" The terrible last boy, the one who'd used Phil in ways too humiliating for Dan to know about, ever, the one that he'd dated years ago and still haunted him, the one he should be over by now, damnit.

Dan squeezed his hand. Go on, the squeeze said. I'm here.

"After - you know - I just - it wasn't just that he was - awful -"

"Terrible," Dan said. "Abusive. Sorry. Go on."

"Yeah. Terrible. It was also that - I knew he wasn't the right person. I'd think - don't laugh - but he'd do something and my first thought would be, you know, that you would never hurt me."

"Oh, Phil."

"I know, it's silly. I know. But he'd do these things, right. Okay. He'd like - I can't go into Dan, I just can't - but he'd set me up to fail. In these big and little ways, just to make fun of me. And I'd think, you know, Phil," he swallowed, hard, "you know, if you would just tell Dan about this, he'd be so mad."

"I would be," Dan insisted. "I was. It's not, Phil, I'm not going to laugh at you, and you don't have to tell me everything he did tonight. I think I've already worked some stuff out on my own. But you should tell me. If you want to. In your own time. I swear I won't laugh."

"Okay." Phil said. He heaved a sigh. His hand had gone clammy in Dan's. "I just want you to know. Before we get into it. I want you to know that I've never really been in a good relationship, and what we have - I just never wanted to screw it up. And I think I'm bound to. Okay? I think it's me."

"It's not."

"You don't know that."

"What's the worst that can happen?" Dan asked. Phil opened his mouth and Dan talked over him. "Don't answer that. What's the best that can happen?"

Phil closed his mouth. Actually seemed to be thinking about it. "This," Phil said. "But better."

"You know why I stopped dating other people?" Dan asked. Again he didn't wait for an answer. He was angling his body a little closer to Phil's. The Christmas lights danced like stars. "I kept wishing they were you."

Phil had the audacity to look at the time. It was getting late, even for them. "So," Phil asked. They were awfully close together. "Do you have a train to catch?"

Dan thought about it. The last wide-open out. He could pick up his book and Phil's Love and get on the train and pine, but that seemed, suddenly, like a waste of time, when he'd always wanted to be here, all along. "I don't think I do."

They didn't want to choose which bed to sleep in so they ended up on the floor, blankets and pillows piled around them. Dan was on his phone long after Phil fell asleep. He ran his fingers through Phil's hair. He stayed up until the tree lights turned off, until the grey dawn seeped into the window, long enough to know that this wasn't all a dream.

In the morning, they called their parents and said they'd definitely be home for New Year. Phil made breakfast and Dan made toast. Dan washed the dishes and Phil dried, puttering around their kitchen to put stuff away. Sometimes, he'd nudge Dan out of the way with his hip, and sometimes Dan would put a sudsy hand on Phil's wrist, just over his pulse point.

Nothing had to change. Dan sensed that Phil was still giving him room to take it back, if he wanted to. But he didn't. He thought he'd known where he stood with Phil, the easy comfort of domestic bliss, but now there seemed to be new roles to fill, new costumes to try on for size, new dialogue. And Dan would learn this part, too, and fit himself around Phil. They'd rehearsed for far too long for this to be anything less than perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Once more for my sister. We should both be studying for finals. I'm writing fanfiction instead.


End file.
